


Reckless

by Caprina



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, Thor (Movies)
Genre: Crossover, Humor, M/M, Snark
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-26
Updated: 2014-02-09
Packaged: 2018-01-10 04:12:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,749
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1154737
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Caprina/pseuds/Caprina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A <s>man</s> god walks into a bar and pan-universal mayhem ensues.  Eventually.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This started off as a short, silly standalone and just grew.  
> Reference is made to [The Thurber Hypothesis.](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1127870/chapters/2274504)

When you look at it logically, the Bronze has to be operating under some kind of spell.  
  
It isn't as if you don't know what you're getting. Bunch of college kids playing at grown ups. Beer that's too cold and full of gas. Some crappy guitar band in oversized knitwear singing about inner pain in wispy voices. Shite, really, yet week after week there you are, going back for more. There has to be some kind of magic behind it.  
  
Spike sighs, tapping out an angry rhythm on his beer bottle. The Scoobies are out of town, the Hellmouth's been disturbingly quiet for the last couple of weeks and he doesn't even have the cash to get seriously pissed. Still, he's all chipped up with nowhere else to go, so here he is, scanning the crowd for someone who might be persuaded to buy him another beer.  
  
And it looks as if his luck's in. The girl next to him picks up her drinks and moves away from the bar, dropping a five dollar bill as she goes. Spike slides off his stool to pocket it before anyone else notices, which is how he gets to see the feet first. Biker boots, well worn. Long legs in narrow leather trousers and a dark green shirt -   
  
He straightens up so he's looking at the guy's face and the whole mental process shuts down for a moment, then starts up again in a totally different gear. Black hair brushed back from narrow, pointy features, mouth curved in a way that could almost be a smile and something about the eyes that isn't quite right. The smell of power, overheated. Not a vampire, not any sort of demon he's seen before, definitely not human.   
  
Well, hello, Hellmouth.   
  
'You're new,' Spike says, climbing back onto his bar stool and swivelling round to look at his beer, nonchalant.  
  
'It is my first visit to this place,' the pointy guy says and Spike swivels back again, sharpish, because his voice is soft, educated and pure Home Counties.   
  
'You're not related to Rupert Giles, by any chance?' Stranger things have happened in Sunnydale.  
  
'Rupert Giles? The name is unfamiliar to me.'   
  
'Well, then?'  
  
'I am Loki, of Asgard,' the guy says, 'And I am burdened with a furious thirst. What refreshment would you recommend?'  
  
Spike holds up his bottle. 'Not what you'd call real beer, but it's the best they've got.'  
  
Loki smiles at him, then at the kid behind the bar, a dangerously charming smile. No wonder the kid scoots over so quickly. Loki hands over a couple of notes and says, 'Two more of these, please.'  
  
Spike's starting to like the guy.  
  
Loki settles on the bar stool next to Spike's, which is impressive, because there wasn't actually a bar stool there a second ago.  
  
'What is your name, friend?' There's the charming smile again, almost convincing.  
  
'Spike. Thanks for the beer.'  
  
'It is my pleasure.' They clink their bottles together and each takes a swig, but neither looks away from the other.  
  
'You are not of this land, either,' Loki says, after a pause.  
  
'You don't beat about the bush, do you?' says Spike. 'Not from hereabouts, no.'  
  
'Nor like these others.' Loki leans towards him, staring intently, and raises a hand to the side of Spike's head. Not touching it, a few inches away, but Spike can feel it well enough.  
  
'Hey, give it a rest. No mucking about in a guy's head without permission.'  
  
The cold ripples through his brain, the hand drops, but Loki's still staring. 'Hmm.'  
  
'Not a big believer in foreplay, are you?'   
  
'You might be surprised,' Loki says, very smooth, with a look that stops Spike's reply dead and sets off another ripple, hot this time and nowhere near his brain. A second too late, he remembers to close his mouth.  
  
'I'm certain that you are a vampire,' Loki's saying, 'yet there is something different.'  
  
'That would be the appliance of bleeding science,' Spike says bitterly, taking another mouthful of beer. 'How about you tell me what  _you_ are.'  
  
Loki doesn't seem entirely happy with the question.  
  
'I could probably look you up in a book,' Spike says, 'And I can feel all of that - ' he waves his hands in a vaguely poncey gesture, meaning  _magic_ – 'So there's no point being coy about it.'   
  
It's still not getting him anywhere, so he just keeps pushing. 'Not a vamp, obviously, and not a human. You don't smell like any demons I've ever met and you're way too powerful to be a fiend, a sprite, any of the little guys. I'm going to have to take a stab at it here and go with... a god?'  
  
Loki thinks it over for a long moment before replying. 'In the eyes of the people of this world.'  
  
Right then. A god. Fan-bloody-tastic. Like  _that_ always ends well. 'Here to take over the Earth, are you? Eternal dominion gig? I suppose you've picked the right week for it, what with Buffy off on holiday.'  
  
Loki frowns. 'In the words of your vernacular,' he says coldly, 'I have been there, done that and had the T-shirt ripped to shreds before my eyes.'  
  
'Oh yeah? Which particular apocalypse was that? I've been around for a few and don't remember your name up in lights.'  
  
'Hardly an apocalypse... and from your perspective, it has not yet happened. It may never do so, in fact.'  
  
Spike blinks. 'Hang on a minute. This is an attempt to take over the world that's going to happen in the future, might not happen at all, but you've already managed to fuck it up?'  
  
'It was not my finest hour.'  
  
'You can say that again. What went wrong? Did some bunch of sodding do-gooders get in your way and screw up your plans?'  
  
'In essence, that was it exactly.'  
  
'Well yeah, I know all about that. I've come to the conclusion that it's not even worth trying for the big finish any more. Achievable goals, that's the way to play it. Anyway, at least you don't have a bloody chip in your head that stops you - ' Spike comes to a halt, catching Loki's bleak look as he stares down at his hands. In Spike's experience, gods generally have a more gung-ho approach to world domination, even on the second attempt. 'Don't tell me they've muzzled you, as well?'  
  
Loki's head snaps up then, and for a moment he looks genuinely shocked. Covers it quickly, though, right back to the neutral half-smile.  
  
'What've they done, then? You've obviously not lost all your powers. I've shown you mine,' Spike taps the side of his head, 'so you might as well show me yours.'  
  
'The device in your skull, what exactly does it do?'   
  
'Stops me harming humans. No biting, no slashing, no bloody anything. Doesn't apply to demons though, and I'm pretty sure there's nothing in the fine print about gods, either.'  
  
'You would not get near me,' Loki says, without malice, 'unless I allowed it.'  
  
And Spike can feel it then as well as smelling it, the energy simmering just below the surface. Loki's just as powerful as anything he's seen, and he's knocked about with a few of the really big guns. What's holding this guy back?  
  
'Come on. Share and share alike. It's only fair.'  
  
'And fairness is important to you?'   
  
'Hey! I may be the evil undead, the Big Bad, but I'm still  _British_.'  
  
That gets a smile, at least. 'It is complicated,' Loki says, after a while. 'The power is still there; let us say that I am having to learn new ways to harness it.'   
  
He's obviously not about to give away any more than that.  
  
'Lots of other ways to establish your claim, though, in the meantime,' Spike says. Water to wine, loaves and fishes, making the dead walk, that kind of small stuff usually does the trick.'   
  
Loki shoots him a look of pure hate, and Spike starts to get into the swing of it. 'Of course, you'd have to get yourself a really good agent, some demonic henchmen. Could've helped you there, if I wasn't temporarily incapacitated. Your biggest problem's how to convince everyone you're the actual son of the almighty and not just another TV phoney...'  
  
He glances at Loki, who's gone very still. He might have the British accent, but it looks as if he's suddenly lost the matching sense of humour. Dangerous. Not that  _that_ would ever stop Spike.   
  
'I'm sure you can find room for me in the organisation somewhere, though you need to know I don't do the minion thing. And I'm definitely not prepared to kneel,' he says.  
  
Loki's focus narrows, like a laser, if a laser involved ice. Something Spike's said has really touched a nerve. He takes his time looking Loki up and down, lingering about half way. 'Not unless there's a really good incentive,' he adds, just to wind the bugger up.  
  
Loki spits out, 'I grow tired of your insolence.'   
  
'So piss off, then. I was here first.'  
  
Loki doesn't move, and Spike gives it a moment before he turns to meet another piercing stare, the sort that goes straight through your eyes to scrape around at the back of your skull. If Spike were human, he'd be edging for the door, maybe running for it, right about now.  
  
Loki holds it just long enough and then says, softly, 'And after I bought you a drink, too.' His face melts into a sweet, sad smile, which is the most terrifying thing he's shown Spike yet.  
  
'Well, if you put it like that.' Spike slams his bottle down onto the bar and Loki signals for a couple more, grinning now, before they both give in to genuine laughter.  
  
'I like you,' Loki says, then drains half the bottle in one go. 'The ale, rather less so, although it quenches the thirst well enough. Your judgement was right about that, at least.'  
  
'Well thanks,' Spike says. Then, just for the sake of conversation, 'What type of god are you, anyway? General all-purpose deity? God of fire, that sort of thing?'  
  
'Puppies and rainbows,' Loki says shortly. 'You can look it up if you must, but I tire of it, as I tire of these mewling brats.' He tilts his head towards the stage. 'What else does this town have to offer, by way of entertainment?'  
  
Something tells Spike that gambling for kittens probably isn't Loki's thing. Shame that the Hellmouth's been so quiet lately. Still, even on a slow night there's usually some action to be found in Sunnydale, if you know where to look.   
  
'How about beating the crap out of a few demons?' he offers. 'Best cure I know for the lost-my-powers blues.'  
  
And Loki's on his feet, shrugging on a leather coat that's appeared out of nowhere. He smiles, with a  _lot_ of teeth.  
  
'Then let us go,' he says.


	2. Chapter 2

There's a commonly held belief that vampires can't get hangovers. It's wrong, but it's an understandable mistake. Vampires can get hangovers. They just have to work _very_ hard for them.

The first time Spike wakes up, it takes him about twenty minutes to form a thought, and then it's only _stake me, please_ or something a bit less coherent. Another hour or two passes before he can actually take stock of the situation. 

He's sprawled on the floor in the middle of the crypt with a blanket over his head. _Everything_ hurts and there's a pain in the back of his skull that makes him wonder if he's fallen over on something sharp and just stayed there. If he had the energy he'd put up a hand to check. Then again, if he had the energy he'd wedge the door open and let the sun finish him off when it comes round to that side in the afternoon.

Eventually he gets himself propped up on his elbows and peers into the corners. The door's padlocked on the inside, but there are no stray gods anywhere, so Loki must have let himself out somehow. The god of puppies and rainbows? God of pain and misery's more like it, if his head's anything to go by. 

It took them a good twenty-five minutes after leaving the Bronze to find what they wanted. A whole pack of hellhounds, hyped up and chasing after a couple of college kids in the park. Loki couldn't, or wouldn't, use his magic, but that hadn't stopped him wading in with hand-to-hand and a wicked set of throwing knives. They'd got quite a rhythm going, playing with it and setting each other up for the kill. After they'd chased down the stragglers, they'd traded insults with each other for a while and gone a few rounds between themselves, just for the hell of it. Loki was good, tricky and fast, but Spike had held his own. 

Eventually they'd staggered back to the crypt and started on the whisky. And the thing about drinking with Loki is this: it doesn't matter how much you pour down your neck, the bottle is _always_ half full. Which explains why Spike's lying on the floor with the mother, father and extended family of all hangovers right now. _Never touching whisky again_ , he promises himself, pulling the blanket back up over his head. 

It's well into the next night by the time he gets himself upright and thinks about changing his clothes. At some point Loki conjured up a pile of cash for him and left it by the TV – and if that means Spike's a kept man now, he honestly doesn't give a toss. He takes a handful of notes and heads out to the blood bank, goes round the back to speak to a man he knows.

Four pints of fresh Type O later, he's putting the _un_ back in _undead_ again, which means he's also starting to think. 

He picks the lock on Giles' apartment a little after midnight. Research has never really been his thing, so he takes the simplest, most obvious approach: biggest encyclopaedia on the bookshelf. And that's fine, because there are five and a half pages on Loki in there, with pictures. It's educational, to put it mildly. By the time Spike shuts the book he's not sure whether to laugh or run screaming for the hills. Even taking into account the fact that eighty percent of this stuff is always exaggeration, that is some pretty weird shit. 

Still, god of chaos, lies and mischief? It's no wonder the guy knows how to have fun.

 

********************

 

A week drifts by and nothing much happens in Sunnydale. Spike roams the sleazier parts of town, searching for trouble and finding very little, nothing to write home about. He tells himself he's not looking forward to the Slayer's return. 

Friday night and he's back at the Bronze, leaning on the upstairs railing and playing 'Bite, Fight, Avoid' in his head as he looks down at the crowd.

'Do you see anything you like?' asks a soft voice beside him.

Spike tries not to grin. 'Loki! You didn't call, didn't even leave a note. I was beginning to think you'd lost all respect for me.'

'Well, you have to admit you didn't put up much of a fight.' 

'Bollocks! You just heal faster.' 

Loki's wearing green again, a shirt with a wide V at the throat. If Spike had a soul, he'd give it up in an instant for the chance to bite that neck. 

'You're still showing bruises,' Loki says. 'I was led to believe that your kind were more resilient.'

'Don't flatter yourself, sweetheart, that's not your doing. Got ambushed by a gang of vamps outside the cinema last night. Four to one, you're bound to take some knocks.' Spike shrugs.

'The fight did not amuse you?' Loki asks, narrowing his eyes.

'I missed the first five minutes of X-Men thanks to that bunch of wankers.' 

'Mm, the concentration camp scene. The development of Magneto's character would make less sense without it.' 

'You've seen it?' 

Loki nods. 'Wildly inaccurate, but an entertaining diversion, none the less.' 

'Yeah, the bit where Wolverine -' Hang on. Inaccurate? 'Er, Loki, you do know Superhero movies are only fiction, don't you?' 

'Not at all. The whole concept of fiction is itself a lie.' 

Spike stares at him, trying to work out if Loki's winding him up, speaking some great intellectual truth, or just plain barking mad. It's genuinely impossible to tell. 

'Of course, all such tales are generally eighty percent exaggeration,' Loki's saying. 

'Speaking of which...' Spike hesitates. It might be a bit early in the evening to ask about the horse.

A sigh. 'You looked it up.'

'You suggested it.' 

'Bear in mind, the legends are those of a simple people. As in all mythologies, the most improbable stories are only metaphors for things that they could not be expected to understand.' 

'Yeah, but did you really -'

Loki stops him with an icy stare. 'You would be wise,' he says, 'not to speak of the horse.' 

'Whoa, Nellie!' Spike holds out his hands, palms up. 'Forget I mentioned it.' It's tempting, there are just too many ways to milk it, but for once, Spike decides to err on the side of caution. 'So why are you here, anyway?' he asks.

'Why not? The Hellmouth, as you call it, is quite a beacon for the wanderer between worlds.'

'No, I mean here, at the Bronze.'

Loki leans forward, both elbows on the railing. 'Window-shopping for minions,' he says pleasantly. 'The boy there, with the red shirt and the dark blond hair, a most suitable candidate, don't you think?' A long, slender hand gestures elegantly.

The kid in question is tall, slim and has a neck almost as tempting as Loki's. Spike licks his lips, takes a moment to get a grip, then squints at Loki from the corner of his eye.

'You're winding me up, you bastard.' 

Loki laughs. 'Actually, I came to find you. I thought you might like to join me for a glass or two of _real_ beer.' 

'If you're going to suggest some fancy micro-brewery, you can forget it,' Spike says. 'Can't stand those places.'

'I was thinking of something a little more authentic.' His face is all open enthusiasm. 'What do you say?'

Sod it. Whatever dive Loki has in mind, it has to be more exciting than the Bronze. 'All right.'

'Well then.' Loki takes a step back and holds out a hand in invitation. 

'Hold on a moment, I said yes to a drink, not a _date_!' 

'You are ridiculous,' Loki says, as if he's talking to a backward four year old. 'The transport – it requires contact.'

'Yeah, right.' Slowly, Spike puts his hand out, allows Loki to take it. 'What happ -' 

'This might tingle a little,' Loki says.

It's not so much a tingle, more a scream all over the surface of his skin, as everything else goes misty and silent. It only lasts for a fraction of a second, though, and then there's nothing but the sensation of - 

Rain. Great, slanting sheets of it, blown upwards by a biting wind, right into his eyes and under the hem of his T shirt. 

Spike blinks, takes in the overwhelming sense of grey, the mud under his feet, the slimy, white-painted wall that he's leaning against. There's an ominous creaking sound and he looks up to see a huge swaying board directly above him. Tipping his head back, he makes out the image of a grotesquely ugly face surrounded by swirls of dodgy-looking foliage and, in bold Gothic script, the words 'The Green Man.' 

'Bugger me,' he says, feeling his face crack into a wide smile. 'We're in England!'

Loki looks smug as he pushes open the panelled oak door with its ornate bands of Celtic ironwork, gesturing for Spike to go in ahead of him. 'Of course. Where else would we go to find a decent ale?'


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The meeting that Spike describes in this chapter takes place in [The Thurber Hypothesis](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1127870/chapters/2274504).

Three pints of Adnams and two plates of onion rings later, Spike's starting to get the feeling that he's being played.

It's easy enough to talk to Loki. He's either genuinely interested in what Spike has to say, or he's doing a really good job of pretending. He listens attentively as Spike reminisces about the glory days, the killing sprees all across Europe and Asia, and moves the story along with sharp, funny comments of his own. In return he tells tales of battles and brawls and ridiculous corners he's had to escape from by trickery. It might all be a load of bollocks, but at least it's entertaining. 

When they get around to Sunnydale, though, it doesn't take long for Spike to realise that Loki's done his homework since the last time they met. He sits forward in his seat, taking it all in: the near-miss with Acathla when Angel got sent to hell; the sorry tale of Spike and Dru; the whole big fiasco with the Initiative. He still seems fascinated, but it's not Spike's part in it all that really interests him. It's not so much the Slayer, either, but the big magic and mystery thing she has going on with Giles and the witch. The bloody god's got an agenda, and given that he's having a bit of trouble in the powers department, it's not too hard to see what it is.

Spike's man enough to admit he's a sucker for flattery, but he's not completely stupid.

'You don't have to beat around the bloody bush if you're only after information,' he says eventually. 'You could just ask straight out. I've got nothing to be shy about.'

Loki gives him the soft smile. 'Where would be the fun in that? I enjoy your tales, so full of bravado and vanity.'

'Patronising git.' Spike drains his glass, plonks it down on the table and leans back in his seat, arms folded.

'What else do you expect?' Loki says, eyes glittering. 'You know what I am, more or less.'

'A complete tosser,' Spike agrees.

Loki's smile morphs into a grin, despite his haughty tone. 'Show some respect, bloodsucker.'

Spike grins right back. 'Respect? Yeah, well,' he says slowly, 'I may not be a god, but at least I'm not a poncey horse-fucker.'

So that's how they end up in the field behind the pub, going five rounds again despite the rain and the wind, which seems to have doubled in ferocity since darkness fell. 

This isn't like last time, all left-over adrenalin and good clean swings for the jaw. This is dirty, slippery fighting, grappling and throwing, tripping and rolling: all-in mud wrestling, immortal style. It's filthy, its fun and it's seriously, stupidly hot. Some distant corner of Spike's brain is putting words to the rush of his blood. This has got to end in biting, killing or fucking. Maybe all three, if he's lucky.

He's wrong, of course. Just when he's got himself convincingly on top, fangs bared, savouring that glorious moment right before he sinks them into skin, Loki goes still for a second beneath him. Then he jams a thumb into Spike's groin, does something clever with his other hand and leg, and flips Spike over like a great big bloody useless pancake. Before he can react, Loki's astride him, pinning both wrists into the mud. 

The bastard's been holding out on him.

'Horse-fucker,' Spike grunts, because his brain's too overheated to come up with anything new.

'It fascinates you, doesn't it?' Loki says, looking down at him with a speculative frown. 'If you really want to know how it feels to be ravaged by a stallion, I should arrange for you to meet my so-called brother.'

'Whuh? _What_?'

'He has a certain reputation.' Loki gives a short, bitter laugh and springs to his feet in one swift move, like a cat. An evil, horse-fucking cat. He brushes himself down with his hands, smoothing his clothes and somehow leaving them completely mud-free; it looks as if the rain isn't even touching him. Slick, devious bastard.

'Is that it?' Spike says, 'Game over, just like that?'

He must sound truly pathetic, judging by Loki's delighted grin, all signs of bitterness gone in an instant. 'You wouldn't want it to be too easy, would you? Think of it as an exercise in delayed gratification.'

Spike lets his head fall back and shuts his eyes, ignoring the watery squelch around his neck. His brain's well aware that Loki is just messing with him, promising him nothing; it's just that his body's a bit slow to catch up. He waits for the chorus of _yes yes oh yes_ to subside before squinting up at Loki, who's now watching him with a pleasant, if slightly bored, expression. Once he's certain he has Spike's attention, he steps back and offers a hand.

'Come on, then.'

'Where to?' Spike asks, immediately suspicious.

'Last week you were kind enough to invite me to your home. Now I wish to return the favour.'

Spike sighs, and gets to his feet without Loki's help. It's not as if he's going to say no, but he doesn't have to act like a complete pushover. 

'You'd better do that thing with the mud first,' he says. 'Otherwise this coat is ruined, and men have died for far less.'

'With pleasure,' Loki says. 'I'm not about to let you into my lair in that state, in any case.'

His hands flit across Spike's shoulders, back and sides, barely touching the leather of the coat, but somehow managing to drag a thousand tiny icicles across Spike's skin at the same time. Spike shivers and glances down at himself. Coat and boots are clean and dry, and there's no more mud sliding down the back of his neck, either. 

'That's not bad,' he admits.

'I have to be good for something,' Loki says. 'Right then. Spike, I invite you into my home.'

Spike's not sure the whole invitation thing is necessary with gods, but given the mode of transport it's good of Loki to remember it. Stuck in the doorway while teleporting in is _not_ a scenario that's likely to end well.

 

********************

 

Loki's place isn't so much a lair as a centrefold from 'Design for Living' monthly.

It's a huge, open area, much longer than it is wide, the upper floor of a warehouse conversion by the looks of things. There's a gleaming steel kitchen at one end, an uncluttered living area at the other and in between, where your average executive bachelor would have his fancy dinner table for twelve, an oversized workbench/desk combo with lots of metal and glass. One long side of the room is all exposed brick and windows, with a very expensive view up the river to Tower Bridge and the new big wheel beyond it, but the real showstopper's on the opposite wall: tall sleek shelves right the way along, packed with thousands of books.

For a moment, Spike just stares. 'Some place you've got,' he says at last, aiming for unimpressed.

'I have no need to deny myself the basic comforts,' Loki says, leaning over his desk to frown at one of the two computer screens. 

Spike's still looking around the place, taking it all in: the neat piles of papers and stuff on the desk – equal parts magical objects and electronic gizmos, by the looks of it; the enormous library that nobody, not even a god with immortality on his hands, could possibly find time to read; the vaguely familiar painting on the end wall beyond the leather sofas, an oversized canvas of red and mauve squares like a fuzzily painted window frame opening on a bruise. It takes him a minute to realise what's bothering him.

'You've been here a while, haven't you? Pretty settled, for someone who's on the run.'

'What makes you think I'm on the run?'

'Call it an instinct. Aren't you?'

'There's nothing for me to run from in this universe.' 

'Hiding out, then?'

'Call it a sabbatical.' 

'You want to be careful, though. This place isn't exactly low key.' Low key. Loki. Huh.

'As I say, I have nothing to hide from here.'

'Don't be so sure,' Spike says darkly. 'Make yourself too obvious and someone in authority's going to notice, and next thing you know they'll be coming for you, dosing you up, strapping you down and buggering about in your brain.' 

'They could try.' Loki raises an eyebrow. 'If they could get close enough.'

'Don't underestimate the bastards. You don't want to be attracting attention to yourself.' 

'I'm not. Luke Green may be wealthy, but he pays his taxes promptly and keeps himself to himself. His money comes from family and careful investments; I make sure he loses from time to time. There's really nothing intrinsically interesting about him.'

'Right,' Spike says, still not entirely convinced. A second later he realises what Loki's gesture towards the computer means. 'You're saying you actually pay for all this, with real money made on the stock market?'

'I find it quite entertaining,' Loki says. 'And apart from the initial investment, which was very carefully routed in, every penny is totally legitimate. There's nothing mystical involved. It's not difficult; any human could do the same, given half a brain and a little research.'

'So, you're holed up in Docklands licking your wounds, playing at Gordon Gekko and studying for your PhD in applied magic. I get that. What am _I_ doing here?'

'I invited you,' Loki says with a shrug.

'I'm guessing you don't just ask anyone in, though. Be honest. If you can.'

'Despite what the stories say, I can be perfectly honest, if it suits my purpose.'

'Does it suit your purpose now?'

'Well enough.' Loki gives him the genuine-looking smile. 'Is it inconceivable that I should occasionally find it refreshing to have some company, company from whom I need not conceal my true nature?'

'You should hang out in Sunnydale more often. Plenty of candidates there.'

Loki gives a derisive snort. 'Demons and vampires? Tedious dullards, the lot of them. I made the mistake of visiting that vile underground drinking den before I found my way to the Bronze. Five minutes was more than enough; I could amuse myself more effectively by feeding my own intestines to a pit of bilgesnipes.'

'You went to Willie's?' Spike laughs. 'No wonder you were happy to meet me.'

'You are at least gifted with some vague semblance of wit, and your condition interests me.' Loki steps away from the table as he speaks, and gestures towards the side of Spike's head to illustrate his point.

'Charming!'

'You wanted honesty. Would you prefer that I told you I sought you out for your rugged good looks and the way your pectoral muscles strain so perfectly against your T shirt when we fight? Perhaps we should remove some clothing before we start, next time.' Loki's standing behind him now, too close, his words icy breaths through Spike's hair.

Spike swallows. 'I think I ought to tell you that I don't do blokes.' It doesn't sound particularly convincing, even to him. He ought to be walking away, but his legs don't seem to want to move.

'I am quite sure you don't,' Loki says in a voice that's overly sweet, like treacle. 'Just as I have never used my fabled _silvertongue_ to lick a man's fluid from his belly after bringing him to utter submission beneath me, my flesh cleaving his in a frenzy of agonised delight.' There's that sensation of tiny icicles across the neck again, then he finally backs off.

Spike's still processing this, wondering what the _fuck_ there is to say in response, when Loki reaches the kitchen.

'What can I offer you to drink?' he says, pleasantly.

'What? Uh, whatever you're having,' Spike mumbles, after a moment.

Loki moves bottles around in the cupboard before selecting one and pouring dark gold liquid into two tumblers. He slides a glass across the kitchen island to Spike, a safe distance away. 

'It's a half-decent single malt. I think you'll enjoy it,' he says, as if the last few minutes had never happened.

'Can't you just magic the drinks up to order, by the glass?' Spike asks, clutching at the first topic that occurs to him.

'I can, but it never quite tastes the same.'

Spike doesn't want to stare at Loki for too long, so he turns to the bookcase instead and starts a slow march along its length. It seems to be science up at the kitchen end, although some of the titles are so obscure, it's hard to be certain. A bit further down, about level with the desk, the magic kicks in. There's everything from the old dusty classics to glossy modern paperbacks.

'What about the books, though? Do you really need to keep half the British Library in here? Couldn't you just call them up when you need them and send them back when you're done?'

'Absolutely not,' Loki says, perfectly serious. 'Books have a powerful magic of their own. Only a fool would trifle with them.'

'Speaking of which, if you _are_ after information from Giles, it would be easy enough to persuade him to play ball. Just show him this lot and you'll have him eating out of your hand.'

'Perhaps so, though I might risk too much by inviting him here.'

Spike's down to the living area now, surprised to see a shelf full of graphic novels and boxes of comics; a bit lowbrow in comparison to the rest. Next bookcase along, and he's into the fantasy and science fiction section, which doesn't seem quite right either. Not until he recognises a big hardback novel with a grey slipcover and something slots into place in his head. 

Right. Should have been obvious. He pulls the book out and turns to Loki.

'I get it now, the whole fiction is a lie thing. It's that whatsisname, isn't it? Herbert? Berber? The one with the parallel worlds and stories theory?'

'Do you mean James Thurber?'

'Yeah, him.'

'You know of his work?' Loki says, disbelieving.

'I can read, you know. But it's more of a first-hand thing. I've met an elf.'

'So have I,' Loki says with a shrug. 'Dozens of them, in fact. It's hardly cause for celebration.'

'No, not just any old pointy-eared pillock,' Spike says, striding across to Loki and waving 'The Fellowship of the Ring' under his nose. 'One of these. The real thing. Legolas.'

'Legolas? From 'Lord of the Rings'? Are you sure?'

'What, that it wasn't just some poor sad fanboy in a costume? I think I'd know the difference. Tall, blond, handy with a bow and arrow, blood like the best single malt you'll ever taste. He was the genuine article, believe me.'

'You drank his blood?' Loki's paying attention now, all right.

'Only a couple of mouthfuls. Never forget it, though.'

'How did you meet him? Was it at the Hellmouth?'

'Yeah, Sunnydale. Some magical mix-up pulled him in by accident. Him and a pack of orcs, which nobody told me about until the fighting was over, the tossers. A friend of Giles sent him back in the end. She's the one you want to speak to, you know, if you want to power-up your mystical mojo.'

Loki raises an eyebrow at that, but doesn't get sidetracked. 'So you came upon this Legolas and drank his blood. Did you fight him?'

'And fought _with_ him, talked, shared a bottle of whisky.' And the rest, of course, but he's definitely not about to tell Loki that.

'You speak of him fondly. A pure and noble elf seems a strange companion for a vampire.'

'That's Sunnydale for you, weird stuff happens. Enemy of my enemy, that sort of thing. Anyway, Legolas isn't quite as pure as you might think. I reckon old Tolkien didn't have all his facts straight.' Not that _straight_ is really the word he's after.

Loki's staring at him intently now, his eyes have narrowed and the corners of his mouth are twitching. If he's the really the god of deceit, he must be a bit out of practice. He's practically got 'planning something dodgy' on his forehead in luminous paint.

'What?' Spike asks, although he's pretty certain he won't like the answer.

'Since you formed such an attachment to this visiting elf,' Loki says, smoothly, 'How would you feel about meeting him again?'


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The encounter that Spike recalls in this chapter takes place in [The Thurber Hypothesis](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1127870/chapters/2274504).

'So basically what you're saying is, you want to poke about in my memory to get a fix on Legolas, then magic us both over to a parallel universe to see if he's in for tea and cake, but you're not sure if it's going to work and if it doesn't, it's going to go horribly wrong in a big way. And no real reason for any of it except seeing if it's actually possible.'  
  
'Essentially, yes, you have it right.' Loki smiles up at him blandly. 'Do have a seat; your pacing is deeply irritating.'  
  
Spike sinks down into the black leather sofa. 'You've got a bloody nerve, you know. I'm not just some furry freak with a squeak.'  
  
'A statement which would doubtless carry more weight if I had any idea what you mean by it.'  
  
'I'm not your  _guinea pig_. Your sodding  _lab rat_. Why would I say yes to a bloody stupid idea like that?'  
  
'For the hell of it?' Loki says reasonably. 'You've survived the shorter journeys without mishap, which bodes well for the longer, more difficult ones.'  
  
'Are you telling me you didn't know if it would work when you brought me here?'  
  
Loki shrugs. 'I had to start somewhere.'  
  
'Bastard!'   
  
'Not exactly.' They sit in silence for a while, and Spike thinks about Legolas and Loki and how crappy his life has been, most of the time, since the chip went in.  
  
'You know what,' he says eventually, 'I think it's time you told me what's really going on here.'  
  
'I have been open with you,' Loki says, 'More open than most would expect.'  
  
'Yeah, but there's an awful lot missing. You're a god, thousands of years old and so powerful I can smell it on you, but here you are stuck in a London penthouse, fannying around with magic books and computers and experimenting on vampires. It doesn't exactly add up.'  
  
Loki sighs. 'Perhaps, if we are to travel together, I owe you a little more. Very well.'  
  
Spike waits, while Loki seems to be deciding what to tell him.  
  
'I had a plan,' Loki says at last. 'A glorious plan, but it failed and I was called to account. I would have welcomed death, but it was not to be my fate; instead, I was banished to Midgard – Earth, but not the Earth of this universe.'  
  
'Easy enough to top yourself,' Spike says.  
  
Loki acknowledges this with a small movement of his head. 'I did consider it; but when the time came I discovered that my instinct for survival is rather stronger than I'd imagined. In any case, I was told that I could not be allowed to continue with my powers intact. As it turned out, he who would have stripped my magic from me discovered that it was not all his to take, so he had to settle for burdening me with a multitude of obstacles to its use. No doubt he believes them to be insurmountable.'  
  
'And are they?' Spike asks, although the answer's already obvious.  
  
'It's not the first time he has underestimated my resourcefulness,' Loki says slowly. 'I shall overcome them all, in time.'  
  
'Yeah, well, good luck with that. I suppose the latest power on the menu is the transportation thing, and that's how you washed up here.'  
  
'My arrival, the first time, was unintentional,' Loki says, almost as if he's talking to himself. 'The ability to move between parallel worlds was unfamiliar to me and I wandered for a while, uncertain how to find my way. Once I did reach this place, it struck me as ideal to use as a temporary base. I wasn't lying when I said that the Hellmouth is a powerful beacon; it's one of the principal reasons why I choose to make my home here, for now.'  
  
'A great big energy flare guiding you back so you never get lost,' Spike says.  
  
'And hiding my own activity from anyone who may be trying to find me,' Loki admits. 'There are other reasons to live in this world; it's a place rich in both magic and science, where I can learn much without drawing unnecessary attention to myself.'  
  
'Right.'  
  
Loki's thoughtful expression shifts into a cold smile. 'And of course it is a world in which the god of lies and mischief  _has no brother_.'   
  
Spike stares at him. It's not the first time Loki's made sarky comments about his brother, or not-brother, or so-called brother. Talk about issues. But it's strange, because the books he read at Giles' place didn't mention... Oh. Right.   
  
'That's the truth of it,' Loki's saying. 'Does it change your mind about my proposition?'  
  
'What's the worst-case scenario?'  
  
'For me, another time of wandering. For you, reduction to your constituent parts and scattering across the universe, this one or the next.'  
  
'Why are you bothering to tell me? You could have lied about it and I'd have been none the wiser, right up to the point where I end up as a bunch of arms and legs floating about in space.'  
  
Loki laughs then, showing his teeth. 'Oh, when I said constituent parts, I meant something very much more fundamental than that. It would be over in a nanosecond, though; you would feel no pain.'  
  
'That makes me feel so much better. But don't avoid the question; why are you telling me?'   
  
'Perhaps I am becoming a reformed character at last, overcome with the need to speak the truth,' Loki says, very dry.  
  
'Balls.'  
  
'Or perhaps I'm interested in seeing your response, in learning if I have judged you correctly. After all, you are reckless, and resilient. You chafe against the strictures placed upon you by the device in your skull; your life has become tedious and repetitive. I am offering you a challenge, a high-stakes gamble, an opportunity for mayhem on a pan-universal scale. To be honest, I had thought you man enough to find it irresistible.'  
  
 _Bastard_. Spike glares at him. 'They should have cut your tongue out, never mind your magic.'  
  
'Believe me, you are not the first to suggest it.'  
  
They stare at each other for a long, silent moment. Spike's pretty sure that Loki already knows he's won.   
  
He sighs, letting his head fall back onto the sofa cushion. 'Go on, then. What do we have to do?'  
  
'You want to try?' Loki grins at him, eyes glinting. 'You need to be absolutely sure.'  
  
'Why the hell not? It's not like I've got any other urgent business to attend to. And why've you suddenly come over all concerned, anyway? You were keen enough a moment ago.'  
  
'It's not concern,' Loki says. 'I simply cannot access your memories without your full consent. It's not one of my natural skills.'   
  
'That's a big comfort,' Spike mumbles, as Loki moves behind him and crouches to his level.   
  
'Ready?' The voice is very close to his ear.  
  
'As I'll ever be.'  
  
Cool fingers comb through his hair until Loki's hands are cupping his skull with a firm pressure that would probably feel good, if he weren't so anxious about what was coming next.   
  
'Concentrate on the Rothko,' Loki says.  
  
'The what?'  
  
'The painting. It might help to clear your mind.'  
  
'Okay...' Spike stares at the huge patches of colour. He's actually too close to focus on it properly, but maybe that's the point; after a while, his mind stops trying so hard and he slumps a bit lower on the sofa.  
  
'Now think about Legolas, how he looked when you first saw him,' Loki says, low and soft. 'Remember the tone of his voice, the way his mouth and throat moved when he spoke. The scent of him when you got closer, the feel of his body beneath your hands when you fought. The taste of his blood.'  
  
But Spike's brain is already way ahead, calling up the memories in vivid technicolour without any conscious effort on his part. Legolas frozen in place, wanting to run but so turned on by the weird buzz between them that he couldn't do a damn thing when Spike wrestled him to the ground, lean hard muscle pressed tight to Spike's body, writhing and bucking under him, gasping no while every surge up against Spike screamed yes. The hot hard length of him pushing into Spike's hand, the suffocating wash of his pleasure flooding Spike's senses while the blood ran rich and sweet in his mouth...  
  
Fuck, but that was a hell of a night.  
  
 _Fuck_.  
  
He opens his eyes and drags himself back to the present to hear Loki, laughing. The god's sitting beside him now, looking far too pleased with himself.  
  
'So you don't do blokes,' Loki says. 'I'm glad you made that so abundantly clear.'  
  
'Oh, bugger off. That was different. There was some weird magic thing going on, it wasn't anyone's fault.'  
  
'And what a terrible hardship it was for you both; my heart bleeds for you. But I must admit, I'm more intrigued than ever at the prospect of meeting your friend. This promises to be a most enjoyable trip.'  
  
'You know, I'm not so sure it's a good idea after all,' Spike says, because really, when he actually stops and thinks about it, Loki plus Legolas adds up to potentially monumental disaster.  
  
'You can't back out now,' Loki says. 'It's one thing to be a tease, but nobody loves an abject coward.'  
  
'What I don't get is how you've lived this long without someone ripping your head from your neck. Slowly and painfully.'  
  
'Plenty have tried. Most lived to regret it, but not for very long. You'd be surprised how creative I can be when it comes to agonising deaths,' Loki says with a casual smile. 'In any case, enough; I tire of this. It's time to leave.' He slides his hand across the sofa, takes hold of Spike's.  
  
'No, wait, you need to - '  
  
Everything fades, and Spike's words have nowhere to go.


End file.
